


Leaving the Past Behind

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz, Weiß Side B (Manga)
Genre: Assassins, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Injury, Prison, Psychics, Weiß Side B, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awaiting trial for murder, Ken gets an offer of help from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving the Past Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Slower-Pen in the Help Japan fundraiser. Set in the present, after the events of _Side B_. Many thanks to all those who beta-read it and commented: Puddingcat, Tosca's Kiss, New-Kate and Louiselux!

When Ken thought about his past catching up with him, he always imagined it would be in Tokyo.

It was in London, however, that he was found, two streets from the target, his clothes and hands red with his blood. It had been foolish to think Side B were the only vigilantes worth bothering about - Krypton kept them informed about credible threats, but no one had reckoned on a gang of local boys running him to ground. It was not till he was in prison awaiting trial that he learnt what had happened, that there was an informal hunting pack of teenagers, out for vengeance for their friends killed by Side B's target. It was funny in a way, he thought, remembering Kase.

"Mr Hidaka, you must take this seriously," his lawyer said, frowning at his smile. "You do understand that?"

"Yes," he said. And, to the interpreter from the embassy who came often, "Do they have plea bargains? What if I throw myself on the mercy of the court?"

"Mr Hidaka," the lawyer said, "this is neither an American police show nor the Japanese legal system. You must let me and the barrister handle your defence."

"Yes," he said.

 

*

 

Aya came once, looking annoyed. Ken didn't blame him.

"None of us can get any work done," Aya said. "They're going over my visa paperwork and we all have to evade reporters. They keep harping on us being a shiftless group of foreign nationals taking jobs away from honest British people."

"The English take florists very seriously," Ken said.

"Why are you joking? Don't you understand? Krypton's giving you up – you'll be jailed, we get to wrap bouquets until the press finds something more interesting to look at. How could you get caught?"

"I suppose I _could_ have killed the fifteen-year-olds who grabbed me," Ken said in sarcasm, and hoped no one was taping them.

"Why didn't you?" Aya hissed, and while Ken was still gaping at him, "They're just a bunch of little criminals – isn't that all you say you need? What stopped you?"

"They were _kids_ ," Ken said, while thinking, _You're a bastard, Fujimiya Aya_. "I'm _better_ than I was, I don't have to act without thinking any more."

"Huh," Aya said, folding his arms and glaring at him. "Well, maybe it's lucky that they all have records and dragged you away from the scene to beat you up. It messes with the evidence. Your lawyer can say you're a victim of anti-Japanese racism or something to further muddy the water. The police must have taken pictures of your injuries, right?"

"Yeah," Ken said. "Right."

"Beaten up by a gang of kids," Aya said in disgust, rising to go. "Pathetic."

Ken remembered the urge to slice the boys open, to flee. He could have done it. _But I didn't_ , he thought, and felt a little warmth. _I'm done with killing kids_.

"It was good of you to come," he said politely.

 

*

 

They gave him copies of his documents, all translated into Japanese. They asked if Buddhists needed special food, and seemed surprised when he told them he was Catholic. For a foreign murderer, he couldn't complain of his treatment, he supposed. In a way it was a relief to have been caught – he didn't have to worry about being sent to kill friends, he didn't have to be concerned about his team mates, he didn't – he felt a twinge of petty amusement – have to put up with Chloe's sniping. He wondered if Chloe had a visa that was being investigated. He thought about the stories about eastern Europeans in the tabloids that Aya had translated for him and hoped so.

No one from Side B came to see him again, and he realised Aya was right. He was being sacrificed. _Well then_ , he thought, _let it be a complete one. The others will be freed to continue, and I won't ever have to kill anyone again._

"I want to plead guilty," he said.

His lawyer looked at him in concern. "Mr Hidaka, I don't think you understand –"

"I did it. I killed that man. I want to plead guilty."

"For God's sake," the lawyer said to the interpreter, "make him understand, he's not to do that."

"Hidaka-san," she said, and fell silent as Ken stood up.

"I will plead guilty," he said in clear, loud English.

 

*

 

Once he had convinced his lawyer of what he would do he got a final visitor from the embassy, a middle-aged man who regarded him with disapproval, and who slid documents across the table for him to sign.

"It will take time, Hidaka-kun," he said, "but eventually arrangements will be made for your deportation. You can serve your sentence in Japan." _You_ , his expression indicated, _are an embarrassment._

"Thank you," Ken said. "I'm sorry to have caused such trouble."

"You have caused a great deal of trouble, Hidaka-kun. I advise you to reflect seriously on the actions that led you here."

Ken nodded silently and bowed deeply when his visitor left. It probably wouldn't be easy, he thought, being the only Japanese prisoner. Already the burden of knowing he'd have to speak English all the time was weighing on him.

 _Well,_ he thought. _That's that._

 

* * *

 

When Schuldig briefly came back to consciousness he wished he hadn't. The pain was all-encompassing, and some poor fucker was screaming.

"Shut up," Crawford said beside him. "The ambulance is twenty-five seconds away. Schuldig, don't you _dare_ die."

It really didn't help to be a telepath when your partner was mentally obsessing over just how fucked up you were.

 

*

 

"I want to die," Schuldig croaked. His side hurt like it was being whacked with hot pokers. Or maybe golf clubs, he thought muzzily.

"Don't be melodramatic. It's been long enough; the morphine will dispense again now."

Schuldig pressed the button eagerly and breathed a little less shallowly as the pain began to ease. "What the fuck happened?"

"The same as the last time you asked. You shouldn't get in the way of bullets."

Schuldig was too tired to nod.

"Turns out being shot really fucking hurts," he whispered.

"Yeah," Crawford said, and brushed a hand over his forehead, which worried Schuldig more than anything else. If Crawford was being _nice_ things weren't so great. "Go back to sleep," Crawford said. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He had been there, Schuldig realised for – days? Shit, days. _I really must be dying_ , he thought, but the morphine finally rolled him under again and he didn't embarrass himself by thinking it too loudly.

 

*

 

Breathing hurt, but he could keep it manageable by taking only shallow breaths, leaving him feeling tired and groggy, but not in agony. The morphine made him itch all over, and he debated asking Crawford to scratch the places he could reach. The mere thought of asking hurt him in ways he didn't want to think about. The physio hurt more and it was maddening that Crawford wouldn't do one simple fucking favour for him.

"I am _not_ strangling your physiotherapist."

"She's an evil bitch! She makes me _walk_."

Crawford laughed and sat far enough back that if Schuldig wanted to do him violence he'd have to take at least three steps to get to him. To spite him, Schuldig lay back against the pillows, wondering when he'd ever be able to lie flat again. _Maybe I should do those breathing exercises_ , he thought grudgingly. _Or maybe I should just grow a whole new fucking lung_.

"Hey, Crawford? The doctors are _surprised_ and _astonished_ I've recovered this much. Think I should tell them it's not because Japanese medicine's so wonderful, it's just my unnatural physical abilities?"

"I think," Crawford said smugly, "that you should do your physiotherapy exercises."

"They hurt," Schuldig whined, then looked where Crawford was looking. A few seconds later his physiotherapist came in. "Brad," he said as she gave him a perfunctory bow and told him to get up, "She scares me."

"When you're better," Crawford promised, "you can strangle her yourself."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Schuldig muttered, grimly easing himself off the bed and reaching for the crutches.

 

*

 

"So this is your humble abode? It's boring, Crawford."

Schuldig looked round the apartment's living room – plain cream walls, plain beige furniture – Crawford left to his own devices was _dull_. He glared as Crawford shoved a beige-cushioned dining chair under him just as his legs gave out.

"It'll do for the moment," Crawford said. "We don't need much, just a place to sleep and eat, and for you to do your exercises. I'll take your to your physiotherapy appointments, so don't even begin to think about missing them."

"I could make you forget," Schuldig said sulkily.

"After the first time I hit you in the side you'll make sure you never miss another one," Crawford said, like he was some fucking psycho.

 _Oh, right_ , Schuldig thought. "Give me the tour, then."

"Living and dining room," Crawford said, waving a hand to indicate their surroundings. "Kitchenette. First door on the right, your bedroom; second on the right, mine. Door on the left, bathroom." He crossed to the door that led to the small kitchen. "I'm making coffee. Want some?"

"Yeah. It was always sort of lukewarm in the hospital." Schuldig took the coffee when it came and drank it with pleasure. Hot coffee at last. When it was done he levered himself up. "I'm going for a shower," he said. "By myself."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Crawford said off-hand.

Schuldig flipped him off. It had been weeks before he had been allowed to have a shower at all, and even then an orderly had stayed to make sure he didn't fall. There was attentive nursing and there was voyeurism, in his opinion, and he preferred to be the one doing the peeping. The bathroom was impeccably tidy, and Schuldig resolved to drop towels on the floor and remind Crawford he couldn't bend over easily to pick them up. He stripped and got into the shower - Crawford had mildly-scented, high-quality toiletries, as usual, which was fine. He could handle smelling like Crawford for a day or two, then he'd feel up to making shopping lists and sending him out to get something more interesting. He leant against the wall as he washed. No point in tempting fate. All in all, he thought, as he turned the water off, it hadn't been quite as pleasant as he'd hoped – washing his dick used to at least feel good, even when he hadn’t been horny, not like washing his shoulder or something. _That'd better fix itself_ , he thought sourly, drying himself and looking in the mirror in morbid fascination at the scars on his side, still livid and puckered.

"Real pretty," he murmured. They ached and itched, and proved he was alive. Another half step and he'd have got more than two bullets. Crawford said he'd warned him – maybe he had – and he'd jumped back. There was no memory of it at all. "Don't fucking whine," he told himself. "You're healing faster and better than any normal guy would." He made himself take a couple of really deep breaths and made sure he didn't wince at the twinge. "Fucking lung capacity," he muttered in disgust and dressed again.

 

*

 

"You're looking happy," Crawford said, negotiating the Tokyo traffic with the ease of precognition. "I know you were going to get good news, so what is it?"

"I am making _excellent_ progress," Schuldig said smugly. "I am the _best_ patient she's ever seen."

"So you don't want to strangle her any more?" Crawford said, cutting off a taxi and grinning into the rear view mirror as it braked suddenly.

"Nah," Schuldig said. "It might strain my shoulder. You do it."

"It's time to go back to work," Crawford said. "There's a job I have for you."

"Crawford, I'm an _invalid_ ," Schuldig said in annoyance.

"Think of it as occupational therapy. It'll be good for you. We need to do someone a favour."

Schuldig looked sidelong at him, and dived into his mind when he thought he was distracted. He looked away, irritated that Crawford was shielding so carefully.

"Is it a favour for Takatori?" he grumbled. "Because you know how much I love doing favours for him."

"May I remind you we have had no trouble from the police, despite you showing up in hospital with bullet wounds to the torso?" Crawford said. "Think of it as a favour for Nagi."

Schuldig looked out the window. Great. A favour for Takatori. Why they couldn't just have slaughtered that whole family he didn't know.

 

* * *

 

"I have a visitor? Is it news about the trial?" Ken said in confusion. _Aya_ , he thought, though he knew he shouldn't hope for friends. It had been months since he'd spoken Japanese, since he'd finally accepted he really was alone.

"Someone from the embassy," the warder said.

Ken followed him, thinking that maybe this was it, and he was going to be told when he was going to be tried and transferred to a Japanese prison. He had to make sure they knew he appreciated it, he thought. He was so very tired of English food. At the door of the visiting room the warder indicated a table at the back.

"Over there."

Ken obediently walked forward, then stopped dead at the sight of the man sitting there. Suddenly, without wanting to, he found himself taking a jerky step forward and another, and, furious at the loss of dignity, strode forward himself, thinking he might be able to break a chair over the bastard's head. He found himself stopped just as abruptly, a foot away from the table. Schuldig smiled at him, sly and malicious.

"Hello, Hidaka," he said. "Sit down and stop trying to make a scene."

"I've already been told I won't get out of serving a life sentence, what does it matter if I kill you?" Ken said, and forced himself to take another step.

"Sit. Down," Schuldig said, and Ken found himself collapsed down onto the chair. "Better," Schuldig said, and half-raised a hand to the side of his head before folding his hands quickly on the table.

There was a noticeable tremor in his hand, Ken saw, and looked more closely as Schuldig scowled. He was thinner than he'd been when Ken last saw him, and his face was drawn. Ken sat back and looked at him steadily.

"Whatever you've got, I hope it's painful and terminal."

"Nice," Schuldig said. "I come all this way to see you and that's what I get? Fucking ingrate."

"You're not from the embassy," Ken said. "Why do they think – "

Schuldig grinned, and slid a passport across the table. "I _am_ from the embassy. A minor flunky, sure, but one who can discuss your sad case."

Ken looked in the passport, lifting one sceptical eyebrow at the photo and name. "Yeah, you really look like a Takahiro."

"I," Schuldig said with glee, "am a naturalized Japanese citizen. I married a lovely Japanese girl, we have a _beautiful_ baby boy, and a nice apartment. She's in Tokyo waiting for me to come home. We also have a ridiculously fluffy cat. And I have the documentation to prove all of it." He sniggered. "Well, people would have to take the cat on trust."

"You're lying," Ken said.

"Hidaka," Schuldig said in sorrow. "Want to see naked pictures of my Aya-chan?"

Ken managed to get half way over the table before he stopped dead, the urge to sit down quietly overwhelming him. He sank back into the seat. No one else had paid any attention at all. He frowned at Schuldig, who was breathing shallowly and carefully. _What's wrong with him? Is he injured? Does messing with people's minds hurt him?_ , Ken thought. _What would happen if I can get up again?_

"I'll walk out of here and you can rot, that's what will fucking happen," Schuldig said tightly. "I'm here for Takatori, you little shit. Shut up and listen."

"Omi?" Ken said. "Takatori _Mamoru_?"

"No, Reiji's back from the fucking dead. Of course, Mamoru," Schuldig snapped. "If you want to get out of here you'll fucking listen."

"I want nothing," Ken said. "I'll wait for someone from the embassy."

"Hidaka," Schuldig said, "I'm the fucking cavalry. Takatori says you can do what I say and get the charges dropped if you perform well enough, or you can be tried and serve your full sentence here and face murder charges in Japan too when they finally kick you out of the country. Come on, you can't like being here – you don't have some sort of Catholic guilt telling you to pay for your _terrible crimes_ , do you?"

 _Omi wouldn't say that_ , Ken thought in the moment before he remembered to guard against unwary thoughts. "Shut up about my religion," he settled for saying.

"Eh. No offence," Schuldig said with a shrug, "but I think all religion is shit. But that's just me."

"Right," Ken said. "I forgot. You prefer demons."

Schuldig ignored that, and pulled something out of his pocket, placing it on the table. "I still know religious traditions. This is for you. Happy belated Easter."

Ken looked at the small, foil-wrapped egg in distrust.

"It's not poisoned," Schuldig sighed. "Go on, take it." He picked up his passport and stowed it away. The tremor was back, and more pronounced. "I knew this was a waste of time."

"What did happen to you?" Ken asked.

"I got shot. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm getting better. See you in fifteen years, Hidaka. At least you get fries every day, huh?"

That was that, Ken thought, as Schuldig got up and shoved the chair back in. Now he'd be left in peace, he hoped. Of the off-chance that there was anything at all of truth in what he'd been told, however - "How's Omi doing?" he asked, before he could change his mind.

"He's a guilt-obsessed little shithead who isn't half as nice as he wants to think he is," Schuldig said. "I'll give him your regards."

Omi wouldn't leave him in a foreign country without even the chance of serving his time in a prison at home, Ken thought. He wouldn't threaten even more jail time. He _wouldn't_. But Mamoru might. Mamoru could easily get Schuldig a Japanese passport and papers that would get him past prison officials. All at once Ken regretted his decision to plead guilty, he regretted knowing just how happy his old friends were to abandon him. He'd be fifty before he was free again, he thought.

"Prove that isn't poisoned," he said, nodding at the egg.

Schuldig looked at him silently, then sat again. He broke the egg and unwrapped it to reveal the shards of chocolate. He picked up the largest bit and ate it. Ken nodded and ate a piece as well. It was cloyingly sweet, like most English candy, but good all the same.

"I'll be in touch," Schuldig said, and stood up once more. "You don't have to like me, Hidaka. We can get on just fine in stoic, polite dislike." He walked off, easily enough, but someone with experience could tell he was tired and in some pain.

 _Weakness on the left side,_ Ken thought. _His breathing's not good and doing that psychic shit is hurting him. I could take him in a fight_. From the doorway, Schuldig flipped him off, then unexpectedly smiled. It looked less like the mean grin Ken knew, more genuine, as if he approved of people who planned to kick wounded opponents when they were down.

Ken got up and left the visit room as well, suspicious and ill-at-ease. He didn't trust this at all.

 

* * *

 

 _This is a fucking joke_ , Schuldig thought. _Crawford's started smoking crack._ He twisted his hair up in one hand and looked at his reflection critically, noting that the lines pain and exhaustion had marked on his face seemed there to stay. _I look like shit_. He'd order something full of fat and sugar from room service, he decided. He needed feeding up.

While he was waiting for his food he paced back and forth, looking at the files on the bed as if they were poisonous. He'd already read them twice, even though Crawford had said not to until Hidaka was out of prison and ready for work. Nagi had said that too. Schuldig assumed they'd said it for form's sake and not because they thought he'd obey. It was always the same with them; _Don't read my mind, Schuldig_ , _Don't read the files, Schuldig_. Screw that, nosiness was both a known trait of telepaths and a professional necessity. He'd never regretted reading anyone's mind or any files he could get his hands on, and it had kept him alive more than once.

 _Why send me all this way?_ he thought. _Takatori could have had those wannabe-Weiß losers handle it, and saved on the airfare._ He turned back too quickly and put his hand to his side as the twinge of pain stopped him dead. _Fuck_. He made himself take deep breaths, forcing proper lungfuls of air in. The doctors had said he should be dead, he reminded himself. This was better than the alternative, and he was improving. _Maybe I'll even be able to manage more than a fast walk in a month or two_ , he thought sourly. It was all fucking ridiculous. There was no need for him to be in London, and no need to use Hidaka. He wondered if the poor bastard knew just how expendable he was. _Make sure Hidaka's DNA is the only type they find_ , Nagi had said. _When the target's taken down, frame him or kill him. Whichever's easiest_.

"Nice friends you've got, Hidaka," Schuldig muttered. It wasn't his problem, he knew. Hidaka should be able to work these things out. Get burnt, and you should know that if you were given the chance at another job the likelihood of surviving it wasn't great. It'd be easiest and neatest to kill him, Schuldig thought. He'd be tired after the job, and wouldn't be in the mood for anything more complicated anyway. He paused and sat down on the end of the bed. It really _didn't_ make sense to send him to London and pair him up with one of those fucking idiots. Especially not while he was still wounded - a suspicion trickled through him as he thought of his instructions to leave no loose ends with Hidaka. _No way_ , he thought. _They're not fucking using me up, they're not. Crawford wouldn't_. He thought of the way Crawford had been when he'd been in hospital, and knew Crawford wouldn't give him up. _But Nagi might_ , he thought. Nagi, with his shiny new boyfriend and shiny new loyalties. It hurt, almost as much as his fucking shoulder and side.

He sat there, staring at the carpet until there was a knock on the door.

"Room service!"

 _Don't read the files_ , he remembered Crawford saying, seriously and meaningfully. He peered through the spyhole in the door. It did look like room service, he thought, and slipped the pistol back into his pocket. _Schuldig. You must not read these files_ , Nagi had said, placing them in his hands. _You mustn't, not before you get Hidaka out._ He opened the door and watched the waiter lay out his meal.

 _They were trying to make me nosier than usual_ , he decided. _It's_ Takatori _who wants me gone, and they want me to have time to work that out_. Why would Takatori want him gone? He couldn't still be sore over that Ouka girl's death; that was _years_ ago. He wondered suddenly just who had paid the shooter in Tokyo, thinking of how Crawford had rarely let him out of his sight afterwards. _And then Nagi sends me on a job for Takatori_ , he thought, _but might be going against part of his wishes? Interesting._ He smiled at the thought that Nagi didn't want him dead, then blinked as he realised the waiter was standing there expectantly.

"Thanks," Schuldig said, tipping him a ten pound note. "Bring me up the same again in about two hours, would you? I need to build up my strength."

 

* * *

 

Ken looked around at the street and back to Schuldig. It felt odd, thinking he could just go wherever he wanted.

"Wherever _I_ want," Schuldig said cheerfully. "Come on."

The paperwork had been real, Ken thought. Schuldig's credentials had checked out. It was disconcerting to think that Omi had such pull, and worse to think he was working with Schwarz.

"We're not so bad, when you get to know us," Schuldig said absently, flagging down a taxi.

"Don't do that!" Ken snapped. _Damn_ , he thought, _How can anyone deal with this weird shit?_

"What?" Schuldig said, looking confused. Then, "Oh, yeah – it's habit. Sorry." He took a careful breath, as if he were deliberately breathing shallowly.

Ken frowned as he climbed in to the taxi. Schuldig had seemed distracted all morning, and getting any sort of apology just underlined that. _What the hell's going on?_ , he thought. Schuldig flicked a sidelong glance his way, but said nothing. They both stared out of the taxi windows in silence for the rest of the journey. When they finally stopped in Piccadilly Circus, Ken got out and briefly thought about just vanishing into the crowds of Londoners and tourists. Instead he stood quietly, waiting for Schuldig to pay the taxi driver.

"My hotel's not far," Schuldig said, gesturing vaguely. "I've got plenty of room, there are two beds; you can stay a night or so while we're sorting shit out. But first of all – you want to get something to eat? There are a fuckload of Japanese places round here, you could have something you miss."

Ken looked at him carefully. He'd sounded almost pleasant. The thought of eating Japanese food, maybe even getting a Japanese paper that wasn't weeks out of date appealed to him, but –

"I've been to most of the restaurants round here," he said. "They'd recognise me." The feeling of shame at being recognised as a criminal surprised him; he'd thought he was used to it.

"They won't fucking recognise you," Schuldig said. "You're going to tell me you were a regular at someplace expensive? Come on, Hidaka, you're a fucking florist. Look, we'll go to the most expensive place we can find – no one will recognise you, because you'll have been sticking to the cheap places." He grinned at Ken's face. "And if you want, I'll even buy you some snacks from home – there's a shop just round the corner that sells Korean and Japanese stuff."

"I know," Ken said. "They really will recognise me there. I went in at least twice a week."

Schuldig looked at him, then sighed. "OK. Give me a list and I'll go in." He rummaged in his pocket and handed over an envelope and a pencil. "Whatever you want."

Ken stared at the paper, then thought he might as well take advantage of the world turning upside down. He scribbled down everything he could think of and handed it back. Schuldig looked downcast.

"Well, this is fucking embarrassing," he muttered. "Look, Hidaka, write this shit down in hiragana or romaji, all right? I'm crap with kanji. Better yet – just picture the packages, OK? C'mon, now, concentrate or I'll get the wrong sort of fake Pocky." He smiled encouragingly as Ken did his best to comply. For a bonus, Ken pictured the kanji as well. "Smartass," Schuldig said. "OK, wait here."

Ken waited by the corner, trying to convince himself that no one knew who he was or where he'd spent the last several months. An interminable fifteen minutes later Schuldig was back, carrying two bulging shopping bags.

"I guess you're hungry," Schuldig said, wheezing a little as he handed the bags over. "Here, you can carry them. Now come on, I want lunch."

Distrustful and confused, Ken followed him, the shopping bags weighing him down.

 

*

 

Schuldig's hotel room was large and very neat. Ken looked round at the bland hotel décor, the two double beds and the TV and minibar.

"Bathroom," Schuldig said, jerking a thumb at the door in one wall. "Make yourself at home." He took off his shoes and put them neatly to one side of the door. Ken did likewise and looked for somewhere to put his bags, before stacking the snacks and instant meals on the minibar.

"I'd have taken you for a slob," he said. "It's good to see you're not."

"First," Schuldig said, sitting on one bed, "Sometimes I'm very stereotypically German. Second, I went to a very tough boarding school. Third, fuck you."

Ken grinned at the note of irritation, and turned to face him fully. "So what's going on? Why did Omi send you to get me out?"

"There's a job," Schuldig said. "One you and me both specialize in – the target's a government minister."

Ken took a deep breath. "I'm done with killing people."

Schuldig looked at him levelly. "No, you're not," he said in a serious tone. "It's not just that this is what you're paying for freedom, Hidaka. You _like_ this, and you'd fucking know it if you just were honest with yourself."

"I don't like it," Ken said.

Schuldig slowly tapped a finger against his own temple. "I'm a telepath. Don't even try to fucking lie to me." He got up and went to the chest of drawers, pulling a locked briefcase out of the top drawer. "Here's a summary in Japanese of the details," he said, opening it and handing a sheet of paper over.

Ken took it and held his hand out for the rest. He had no intention of going along with any of this, but information was always good to have. "I want more than a summary," he said. He'd get at least the _gist_ of the English, he thought.

"Sure," Schuldig said blandly, and handed a cardboard folder over.

Ken felt the frustration grow as he flipped through it. There were pictures – he assumed of the target – and they were all he understood. The whole thing was in German. He tossed it down on the bed, ignoring the grin on Schuldig's face. _Stupid foreigners_ , he thought.

"Ooh, touchy. We're both foreigners here, Hidaka."

Ken withdrew to the far side of the room and looked at the single sheet of paper. The fact that it was handwritten annoyed him for the few seconds it took to recognise the writing, and he had to hold his breath to avoid making a noise of surprise. _Not that that matters_ , he thought, glancing up. Schuldig had his back to him, fiddling with the kettle; Ken didn't let that fool him into thinking he was unobserved.

Omi's writing was as he remembered, clear, large and a little childish. _Better than mine_ he thought, and found his eyes damp at the memory of Yohji complaining that he couldn't read the order forms. Yohji's and Aya's handwriting had been scrawls too, nothing like Omi's.

 _Ken_ , he read, _I hope you're well – I know the last months must have been very difficult for you -_ He wiped at his eyes and kept reading. It veered between the dispassionate tone of the missions handed down by Persia and a personal letter. If he let himself, he could hear Omi's voice, he thought.

"It says that despite appearances, I should trust you," Ken said. "It says you're on a leash."

"Charming," Schuldig said. "Are you trying to hurt my feelings?" He turned back, a mug of instant coffee in each hand. "You fucking _are_. Well done, Hidaka, I like pissy bitches." He held out one mug, and after a moment Ken took it. "So why tell me, anyway? I have the full version."

"You said you can't read kanji," Ken said. "I figured you were dying to know what it said."

"I like that snarky attitude," Schuldig said. "It reminds me of myself in my youth."

"We're nothing alike," Ken said shortly.

"I don't know – though you do remind me of Farf too. All that simmering homicidal rage, _yum_." He laughed as Ken tried to keep his temper in check. "I'm liking you more and more, Hidaka."

 _This is ridiculous_ , Ken thought. _It doesn't make sense_. "Does it?" he asked, aloud. "I know you're listening to my thoughts – how does any of this make sense? Omi's pulling a lot of strings and could get in a lot of trouble if I'm implicated in anything. I mean, I could see _Krypton_ deciding I was compromised enough that it might be sensible to use me for this – I'm already a foreign murder suspect, right? It's only to be expected I do something wrong when I'm out on licence. Maybe it proves some political point of Krypton's or something. But _Omi?_ What does he get out of it? And why send _you_ , all the way from Tokyo? Why the hell send _anyone_ recovering from being shot to partner with a guy in my situation?" Schuldig was looking at him intently, like he was suddenly more interesting, and Ken got ready to fight.

"I like the way you think, Hidaka," Schuldig said. "Want to know the truth? Not that you'll believe it. I don't fucking know either, and I don't fucking like it. Maybe we can work it out together, what do you say?" His smile was sharp and in no way trustworthy as he picked up the folder. "I can translate more of this fucking bullshit, if you want. Any particular things you want to know?"

"Yeah," Ken said. "For a start, where did you learn your Japanese? Gangster movies?"

Schuldig's laughter was more genuine, he thought. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

 

* * *

 

"I'm going to sleep," Schuldig said. He was tired of arguing with Hidaka, tired of going over everything again and again, and especially tired of translating from German to Japanese. "Go to bed." _I should make that a mental suggestion_ , he thought, but didn't. It tired him out more than he wanted to admit, and he'd been up way past his bedtime. He fucking hated having a _bedtime_. Hidaka withdrew to the other bed, sitting on it and gazing at him with suspicion.

"Omi could afford a separate room for me," he said.

"Yeah, well I don't want you sneaking off. And I spent that money anyway." Which wasn't true, but who cared? Money was always useful. "Relax, I'm not going to make a move on you, you're not my type."

" _What?_ " Hidaka said, like he'd never even considered it. Schuldig had a quick peek into his mind - he hadn't.

"Never mind," Schuldig said, amused, and grabbed the bathroom first.

*

 

He woke with the irritating knowledge that he had to leave his warm bed and go for a piss. It was too much trouble, he thought sleepily, lying there and listening to Hidaka's quiet breathing. Fuck, no, he really had to go. He rolled over, taking his time getting out of bed. Standing too quickly left him lightheaded even now. He padded into the dark bathroom and sighed in pleasurable relief as he pissed. One drowsy step back into the bedroom, and Hidaka hit him in the side of the head.

"Fuck!" Schuldig yelled. "It's me!" Not the most sensible thing to say, he thought as Hidaka landed another blow. Schuldig spun and kicked him in the hip, lashing out mentally as he did so. " _Fuck!_ " he gasped as his balance went and he fell, crashing down on his bad side. "Fuck, shit, _shit!_ "

"Fuck!" Hidaka yelled too. "Shit, my _head!_ " Then, like the bastard didn't know, " . . .Schuldig?"

"No, it's the virgin fucking Mary come to give you a blessed blowjob," Schuldig snapped, clambering awkwardly up to lean against the wall. "What the fuck, Hidaka?" _Fuck me_ , he thought. _That hurt_. Hidaka had collapsed in the corner and would still be seeing stars so he pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets till he was sure he could breathe more easily. He was shaking from the mental attack, fuck it. He sat down cautiously. "What the hell was that about?"

"I heard someone moving," Hidaka groaned. "I just –"

"Asshole," Schuldig muttered. "I should have hit you harder."

"What did you _do_?" Hidaka said. "I'm seeing weird flashes of light and it's really painful."

"You want the technical answer?" Schuldig said, as sarcastically as he could. "Or are you satisfied with _I hit you over the head with my mind?_ " _Breathe_ , he told himself. _Deep breaths. Stop quivering like a little girl, you fuck, and read the bastard's mind_. He dived into Hidaka's boring mental scenery and found as little of interest as usual. The stupid bastard was telling the truth, he realized, and had reacted to hearing movement without actually realizing who he was hearing.

"Did you forget you were sharing a room with me?" he asked in disgust.

"No," Hidaka said, sounding embarrassed. _Shit_ , he thought. _I'm such a - can he hear me?_

"Great," Schuldig said. "I'm so thrilled to be working with you. Go back to bed and stop being such a fuckhead."

Hidaka crawled obediently back to his side of the room and got on his bed, lying curled up and miserable. "Can you make it stop hurting?" he said.

Schuldig rolled his eyes, though there was no way Hidaka could see. "I don't know," he said. "That's not my usual method, Hidaka. I'm pretty sure I can make it hurt _more_ , if that helps."

"You're not very nice," Hidaka said after a moment.

"Yeah. I get that a lot. Attack me again and I'll melt your cerebral cortex." He wondered if the rumours about telepaths who really could do that were true. Fuck it, shooting Hidaka would be easier.

 

*

 

The next day they walked the area around the target's house, Schuldig talking loudly in English about football and complaining mentally about Hidaka's topics of conversation.

 _You wanted something I can talk about in English,_ Hidaka thought snippily. "There's no way Manchester United can beat Barcelona," he said, nice and clearly as they passed the security guards who weren't even trying to be subtle.

"We'll see," Schuldig said, scoping out the guards' minds as they walked past. _Just two boring-ass football fans,_ he pushed at them. Why did the target even have goons in bad suits, he wondered. _With guns_ , he realized, as one of them answered his phone and the shape of a shoulder-holster was briefly revealed.

 _Gun! Gun-gun-gun_ , Hidaka thought.

 _Don't fucking shout_ , Schuldig thought at him.

 _"Huh? What?" Hidaka said, then in low, fast Japanese, "Did you see? They're armed!"_

 _"Yeah," Schuldig said. "I _am_ actually professional. _English_ , Hidaka. _Football_."_

 _We're past them_ , Hidaka thought. In Japanese. He clearly wasn't in a chatty mood, so Schuldig kept quiet till they came to a café, and he shoved him inside.

"Sit," he said. "Drink the coffee I am so kindly buying you. And don't talk back to me, I have had it with you. We're going to work together, right? The answer is, _Yes, Schuldig_."

Hidaka shrugged. Halfway through his second coffee he said, "Is this guy really trafficking children?"

"It's what the file says," Schuldig said. "It says he also likes the personal company of little girls; I assure you, I am morally outraged. OK, the target's always home at about eight, I've watched him every night this week before getting you out. His wife's going away tonight, we'll have a clear field tomorrow. Why are you looking at me like that - c'mon, Hidaka, you know this is a job for your pal. You think _we_ give a shit? I'm not doing this job to advance the cause of international evil."

"Do you really not know what's going on? Why you and me are meant to do this?" Hidaka said, and sounded like a kid hoping for real answers. It was kind of embarrassing.

"No offence," Schuldig said, "but you're a liability, and personally, I wouldn't have you anywhere near a job. So you gotta ask yourself, Hidaka, why a sensible man like Richard Krypton starts pulling the strings your friend Omi asks him to pull and you end up free and ready to work." He took a mouthful of coffee. "I'm not saying Takatori wants you dead," he said, "but Krypton, he doesn't owe you a damn thing."

"So why are _you_ here?" Hidaka asked, sounding hurt.

"Look at it from my point of view," Schuldig said. "I don't end up with the guy with actual investigative training, or the guy with electronic skills, or even the guy with the cool sword. I get the homicidal manic – I'm working on the assumption Takatori hopes you'll snap and kill me. You've already attacked me, you know?"

"I'm not a homicidal maniac," Hidaka muttered.

"Relax. I get on with Farf just fine. I'm kind of homicidal myself." The real difference was _he_ had friends, he thought. He remembered Crawford saying _Don't read the files_ and _Take care of yourself_. Nagi using his _serious_ voice to say, _Don't read the files_ , exactly the tone and expression that had always made Schuldig eager to ferret out whatever information had been forbidden. They hadn't given him up, not like Hidaka's loser friends. They'd been warning him, in their own paranoid, asshole ways. He smiled, perfectly politely, at Hidaka and thought how nice it would be for everyone to just say what they meant, just one fucking time. Ah, well. That was what telepathy was for.

"Can we watch the game?" Hidaka said. "The Barca/Man U game," he clarified at Schuldig's frown. "I'd like to."

Schuldig smiled again. He didn't care much for football, or any sport, but he figured he could give a guy his last request.

"Sure," he said kindly. "We can watch it."

 

* * *

 

"We mustn't kill the guards," Ken said.

Schuldig turned his head and gave him a look that meant _You must be kidding me_ in every language Ken knew. "Mustn't we?" he asked, and made himself more comfortable against the storage box by the garden fence.

"You were wrong in what you said about me," Ken said. "I don't like killing. I don't want them killed. Just the target."

"He doesn't bring the kids into the country with his own soft hands," Schuldig said. "Anyone who gets in my way is going down." He shifted a little. "Listen, that's his car."

Ken listened to the car pull in to the drive, to the garage door opening. The target said something to one of the security men, who replied. He couldn't hear what they said, but their voices were unconcerned, calm. He raised an eyebrow at Schuldig.

 _Patience, padawan._

 _What?_ Ken mouthed at him.

Schuldig sighed. _Philistine. We wait. Stop fidgeting. You'd think you'd never killed anyone before._ He grinned as Ken glared at him. _Nice garden, huh? I must ask Crawford to get us a house like this. Course, he'd have all the plants taken out – too many places for assassins to hide._

Ken ignored him. He was too jumpy, he knew, flinching at the movement of the wind in the trees. Schuldig had sworn that the target's neighbours weren't at home, that they were perfectly safe in their vantage point in the garden backing on to the target's. _One death_ , he thought. _This man who deals in children. No one else._ He wished he thought it was appropriate to pray. He wished he actually believed enough to pray at all. Schuldig was looking at him oddly so he thought about the blueprints of the house, and how they'd be in and out in a few minutes and he really would be free. He tried very hard not to think about how a job like this, in a normal house – even if a big, expensive one – seemed like a job for one killer. _Schuldig could do this by himself, easy,_ he thought. _Even if he's hurt_.

"Focus," Schuldig murmured "It'll be over soon enough." He sat quietly, looking like he was listening to someone just out of easy earshot. Ken supposed he was.

They waited until finally the long English evening turned to twilight, and without warning Schuldig stood and stretched.

"Let's go," he said, and jumped onto the storage box behind them and from there over the fence.

Ken frowned, thinking of the way he'd seen Schuldig move in Tokyo – maybe he really did need a partner on this. With a sigh, Ken went over the fence after him. He bit back a curse as the cost of his slight delay was instantly clear, Schuldig flattened against the house wall to the side of a large sliding glass door, the body of a guard at his feet.

 _There wasn't a shot_ , Ken thought in despair.

 _Knife, asshole,_ Schuldig's voice said absently in his head. _C'mon, silencers aren't_ that _good. Sometimes you've got to get your hands dirty – and that's what you like, right?_ He winked, and beckoned Ken closer. _There's no one in the kitchen. We go in, and we stick together, go it?_

Ken nodded, swallowing. He'd always hated this bit, he thought, the moments before he stopped thinking and started moving, fast and sure.

 _Relax, you've just got to get back on the horse. It's all muscle memory – think of it like a football game._

Ken didn't bother dignifying that with a response. He took a breath, flexing his hands; the heavy gloves of the bugnuks were as familiar as football boots had once been.

"OK," he said, and Schuldig moved without another sly thought, his pistol suddenly naked in his hand. They went through the door into a large kitchen. Ken flicked a glance at the newspaper lying on the table, waiting for the guard to come back from his smoke. He'd been reading the football match analysis, Ken saw with a pang of fellow feeling. _Don't think_ , he told himself. _You can't do anything for him, anyway._

 _Toilet, there,_ Schuldig's voice said. _Guard taking a dump._

 _What do you want me to do about it?_ Ken thought.

 _I suggest you kill him_ , Schuldig thought with deep sarcasm.

 _I said we shouldn't kill anyone but the mission target!_

 _Christ. If you want a thing done right -_ Schuldig put his pistol away, drew a knife, then whirled and gave the toilet door a vicious kick, sending it flying in. Ken gasped as he leapt in, and the startled cry from within ended before it could be fully voiced.

"Fucking blood spatter," Schuldig muttered, re-emerging, bloodied knife in hand. "Start pulling your weight, Hidaka." He exchanged the knife for the pistol again and led the way on, walking a little stiffly.

 _Sorry kicking the door in and killing two people within five minutes has tired you out,_ Ken thought angrily.

 _Your_ mother _tired me out._

Ken didn't think before he moved, and that, he realised as his head cleared, was how he managed to have Schuldig pinned against the wall, the claws of his bugnuks resting on his collarbone.

 _You don't ever talk about my mother again._

Schuldig grinned, which made Ken want to kill him all the more. _I knew you still had it in you, Hidaka. Now turn that simmering rage on the target, OK?_ Ken stepped back in disgust and then followed him towards a door, behind which the faint sound of a television murmured. Schuldig's face looked briefly tight in concentration, then his grin widened. _He's asleep. There mustn't be anything good on._ He quietly opened the door and slipped in, Ken on his heels.

"Be my guest," he said aloud, waving Ken towards the man sleeping in a large armchair in front of the television.

"I can't kill a sleeping man," Ken hissed.

Schuldig rolled his eyes, and walked over, tapping the man hard on the head with the barrel of his gun. "Wakey, wakey," he said.

The man opened his eyes and gasped, his gaze focusing sharply. He opened his mouth and Schuldig raised the gun, a nasty smile on his face.

"Ah-ah, no shouting. There's no point yelling for Simon anyway, he's still on the can and he won't be getting off it any time soon. And Barry, well – I guess it's true that smoking will kill you."

"Do you have to drag this out?" Ken said and the man looked over in alarm, as if he hadn't realised Schuldig had company.

"I hear you like to fuck young girls," Schuldig said genially to the man. "My friend here loves kids, but in a good, wholesome way. People like you disgust him; I bet he wants to slice you up."

"I'm not doing it," Ken said.

Schuldig looked at him in surprise. "Seriously? Young girls. That's not something I made up to motivate you, it's really in the file. Don't you want to kill the fucker? I want you to kill him."

"You're _talking_ to him," Ken said in fury. "I can't kill someone in cold blood."

" _Really?_ " Schuldig said, as if this were a strange and new concept. As the man took advantage of their distraction to leap from the chair towards a cabinet, he fired, the report of the gun loud even with the silencer. The man collapsed, blood spreading from beneath him. "It's never bothered me." Schuldig shrugged. "Pity you didn't get incriminating blood all over your psycho claws, Hidaka."

Ken narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Schuldig was smirking, his stance far too casual, the precursor to sudden movement Ken was all-too-familiar with, both from the J-League and Weiß. He raised his hands protectively, ready to jump as Schuldig's gun-hand came up and then Schuldig's eyes widened a little and he fired, leaping to the side as he did so. Even so, Ken was shocked not to be hit at such close range. A blow like a hammer crashed into the small of his back, sending him staggering to one knee in pain and shock. Schuldig fired again, vaulting over the corpse and the armchair as a blur of motion went past Ken after him. Ken looked up through tears of pain to see Schuldig and a fair-haired girl fighting, both of them moving faster than he could comfortably focus on. Schuldig aimed a blow of his pistol at the girl's solemn face and she ducked beneath his arm, spinning round behind him and punching him in the kidneys. Schuldig winced and leapt into the centre of the room, the girl a split-second behind him.

"Hidaka! Get _up!_ "

Ken flicked a glance at the door. _Let the freaks of nature battle it out_ , he thought.

"Jesus, Hidaka! She's fucking _Estet_ and I'm _not_!"

 _And you're wounded_ , Ken thought, remembering a more confident Schuldig taking on that fire-wielding freak at Koua. As he thought it the girl leapt up, spinning in mid-air to deliver a kick to Schuldig's left shoulder. He blanched and dropped without a sound. _Shit_ , Ken thought, as the girl looked his way.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, stepping back.

"You can't," she said, in clear, accentless Japanese, and came for him, horribly fast. Her kick sent him across the room to crash against the wall. Ken slashed at her as she closed again, seeing the marks Schuldig's blows had left on her arms and face. She didn't seem to be harmed by them at all. His bugnuks caught only her swirling skirt as she jumped up and away from his attack, landing lightly to whip her heel round in an attempt to sweep his feet from under him. Ken flung himself to the side and rolled away as she punched down towards his throat. She pounced on him and stood on his wrist as he slashed the other hand at her only to have her grab that wrist in both hands and twist it viciously. Ken cried out as he felt the bones give and yelled again as he made himself wrench the injured arm free and jerk his other arm violently enough to allow himself to scramble away. She watched him dispassionately, then slowly walked forwards again. She'd dealt with the real threat, he thought as he clambered to his feet and now she was amusing herself. He grabbed a heavy glass ashtray and threw it at her, left-handed. She caught it with a quick movement of her hand, and threw it back, a lot more accurately. Ken got his hands up and managed to keep it from smashing his face in, though the fresh pain in his broken wrist made him want to throw up.

"Best goalie in the J-League," he said through gritted teeth. "And you want to _throw_ things at me?"

She seemed to consider that, then deliberately showed him her empty hands, and crouched a little, ready to jump. Behind her, Ken saw Schuldig get unsteadily to his feet, his face drained of colour and his gun shaking as he raised it, steadying it with his off-hand. The girl jumped, and Schuldig fired, the sound of the gun louder than before. She crashed into Ken, her limbs loose, and bore him down under her. Ken shoved her off in horror and she rolled away, still silent in death, her face showing emotion at last. She looked surprised, he thought and looked up as Schuldig limped over.

"Huh," Schuldig said. "I'd have expected that to be a through-and-through. It looks like Estet's making them dense, these days. You OK, Hidaka?"

"Yeah," Ken said, his ears still ringing from the noise of the shot.

"I took the silencer off for better accuracy," Schuldig said, as if that was the most pressing matter on Ken's mind.

"So what now?" Ken said. "Now you shoot me?"

Schuldig just looked at him, then he put the gun away. "No," he said. "Now you shut up and let me _concentrate_." His gaze turned distant and focused as he stood, completely still, for a minute. "OK," he said at last. "There really are no others in the house any more."

"You were going to kill me," Ken said, wondering if he should really press the issue.

Schuldig waved a hand as if that was a small thing that neither of them need be concerned with. "Not important now," he said looking down at the girl's sweet, surprised face. "You know what _is?_ This bastard's traffic was the new kids of Class-Z." He took a careful breath. "Explains why Crawford would say I should come here."

"Why would he give you false information?" Ken said.

"Oh, Brad never shows his full hand to anyone," Schuldig said absently. "We're working on better communication, though, I'm sure we'll come through this as a stronger unit. Maybe after I bitch-slap him a few times." He looked up at Ken. "You know, my friends gave me warnings of a sort. Yours set you up to take a fall. You should maybe think about that, Hidaka."

"Omi wouldn't –"

"Relax, he also set me up to take one, remember? This is what's going to happen, Hidaka," Schuldig said. "I'm going to have a look for anything Schwarz can use here, and you're going to get out of my hair. I wouldn't recommend going back to Weiß or getting in touch with Kritiker. You vanish, I'll vanish and if either of us has any fucking sense, we never end up in the same country, let alone the same city as your little Takatori pal."

"I told you, Omi would never hurt his friends," Ken said in a certainty that sounded hollow even to himself.

"There isn't any _Omi_ any more," Schuldig said, sounding tired. "I'm not sure there ever was, at least not any time I was looking into his fucking mind. Now are you going to stop pissing me off, or do I follow orders like a good little boy and blow you away?"

"I'll go," Ken said, and took a last look around the trashed sitting room. "Are _you_ OK?" he asked, surprising himself and, he thought, Schuldig.

"I'll live. Sorry," Schuldig said, and reached into his jacket, smirking as Ken tensed. "Here. Now get lost." He tossed a thin roll of banknotes at Ken who caught them one-handed. "It'll get you out of England, anyway."

"The embassy has my passport," Ken said.

"So use your ingenuity. What am I, your handler?"

Ken backed off, still keeping an eye on Schuldig, who made shooing movements.

" _Bye_ , Hidaka. Go on, I'm not going to shoot you in the back. I figure that keeping you alive will annoy Kritiker, and that's always a plus. _Go_ , I need to search this place."

Ken went past him cautiously and out down the corridor. He didn't look at what lay behind the toilet door, and once outside he felt a little better. All the houses had large gardens filled with trees to guarantee privacy, and civilians rarely knew what real gunshots sounded like. He was free, he might well be presumed dead. Taking Schuldig's advice and simply vanishing sounded sensible and attractive. On an impulse he pushed and rolled the body of the first guard killed over nearer to the house wall and slipped back into the kitchen to take the tablecloth to cover him as best he could. Maybe he'd be taken for something to be thrown out – it might give Schuldig a little longer to search without risking discovery. Ken kept the thought he was helping a mass-murderer from the front of his mind. Maybe it would count as a favour, however small, he could call in the future. He stuffed the bugnuks into his jacket and awkwardly climbed back over the fence, slipping out and way through the neighbour's garden, cradling his injured wrist.

He was free and he was going to live as well as he could. He hoped he would have to kill very few people to achieve that.


End file.
